The Ubiquitous Gearhead
by Great Thumbs of Wisdom
Summary: A Stranded man awakens from a coma to find himself lost and bewildered. Or is he really a college student from Earth who has lost his mind? Exploring what it really means to be a Gear. Drive your chainsaw into the guts of Gears of War and hang on tight.
1. Chapter 1

**This is not a self-insertion story. This "college student from earth" shares a little with me and others in the real world, but don't most characters in fanfiction, even the official ones? No, this is a character I want to use to explore what it REALLY means to be a Gear, and explore the world of Sera from a new perspective.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Gears of War.**

--

"You're mine now, bitch!" roared James Cargaille, laughing as he mashed the B button frenetically. Onscreen, Marcus Fenix clashed chainsaws with Cyclops Drone, spraying the screen with sparks as the two characters struggled. To his right, his older brother Justin's thumb blurred with the quick movement of the chainsaw duel. The onscreen warriors grunted and struggled, sinewy muscles bulging beneath blood-stained armor.

"Yes!" cried James, thumb still flashing.

But then, with a startling splash of blood and gore that covered the screen, Cyclops Drone turned Marcus Fenix's chainsaw to the side and dug into him where neck met shoulder. James cried "No!" and mashed the B button harder, but to no avail. It was too late now, and the crimson cog, now sealed with a skull, filled his half of the screen. The bold words, "Locust Won the Match," were emblazoned in a box, showing the score to be '7' to '15', Justin's favor.

Justin turned to James. "Damn, we should do this more often!"

Unfazed by his Gear's shocking death, James whooped aloud. He was already setting up a second multiplayer game. "I almost had you, man, almost!"

"Yeah right, you've been playing with way too many bots."

"On Insane difficulty! That's fucking hard, you know."

"Yeah, whatever. Bots don't measure up to man. I am man. You are dirt."

The two brothers laughed and exchanged jokes while the match loaded. It was to be a game of "Guardian", a multiplayer mode in which teams were allowed to respawn, but only if their leader stayed alive. They had picked the map "Ruins", for its brooding atmosphere and defensible positions.

James watched the timer count down. "5... 4... 3... 2... 1... _beeep_," he muttered.

In the dark living room, with the silent hum of the Xbox 360 and the whir of the disk tray, James found himself edging closer to his older brother. He caught himself, remembering the rusty springs sticking out of his couch. The coils poked him in the thigh through his boxers.

He suddenly wondered what would happen if he got a spontaneous erection.

The distinctive death sound and a scream from one of his teammates brought James back to reality. He checked the bottom left corner of his screen.

_Destructomator_ had just killed _Cole_ with a pointblank shotgun blast. _Destructomator_ was Justin. He was Skorge, the leader of the Locust team.

Knowing that Cole would respawn behind him, James held the A button and went into a roadie-run, maneuvering out of the spawn area and up the stairs, rolling to the left to make a sharp turn up another set of stairs. He rushed the bridge, checking his tac-com. One of his teammates, Baird, had just gone down. A moment later he was dead.

_Destructomator_ executed _Baird_. The long red name that James had come to fear had just popped up on his half of the screen again. He glanced down at Justin's screen. Saw that he was coming up the stairs behind James with a lancer.

James briefly wondered if Justin knew he had screen-peaked, because he had just jumped behind cover with a tap of the A button. If he did, he didn't show it. He slammed into cover and opened fire. Three bullets in quick succession struck James, splashing blood from his side. James's character, Hoffman, reacted by throwing his arms up as he ran, and the crimson omen began to fade onto the screen.

But James was behind cover now, just behind the large block beneath the last set of stairs that led up to the arc of the bridge, where the flamethrower was located. He equipped a smoke grenade, blind-threw it, and rolled back, immediately holding down on the control stick and holding A to sprint up the stairs. On Justin's screen, the smoke grenade concussed, but did not knock him out of cover. He jumped forward and ran to the block that James had just come from.

One of James's teammates killed a Locust. The teammate quickly died at the hands of another Locust. One of his men went down and was executed. Another of his men drove a Locust into cover with hammerburst shots.

Justin had his own smoke grenade.

It was flying through the air.

It landed just behind James.

Reacting on instinct, James sprinted around his pop-up metal cover and slammed into the wall to his right at the base of the stairs. Despite the poor cover the wall afforded, Justin was on the same side of the bridge as he was, and had no good shot. Still, blood spurted from James's bicep. Twice. Thrice. The crimson omen became thicker and more red.

Pretty soon he would be dead.

He had to act.

Justin stopped firing and began to reload, and in that moment James was rushing him, shotgun at the ready.

But Justin always got perfect reloads. James's character screamed in pain as the bullets tore into him, slowing him. Justin was bullet-hosing him.

But James managed to reach cover by quickly tapping A, sliding into position.

He blindfired.

Missed.

Justin jumped around cover at the same moment, revved his chainsaw.

Big mistake. James slugged him with a melee from his shotgun. He pulled the trigger as Justin's character stumbled back.

Nothing happened. The delay between melee and shooting was greater than it had been in the first Gears of War.

The chainsaw revved, and as his blood covered the screen, James saw the horror of his mistake. It hardly fazed him, just made him more...

Determined...

To...

Justin was staring at James. He had paused the game.

"Jimmy? Jimmy, are you ok?"

James felt dizzy. He turned to his brother. There were two Justins staring at him with wide eyes.

And then the coffee table was rushing up to meet James' face.


	2. Chapter 2

**You see, when you drop somebody into a video game, they're not going to react by saying "yeah, let's kick some ass!" At least, not right away... But anyway, there's always the issue of denial. And realism in the face of absurdity.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Gears of War.**

--

The first thing James noticed was the blinding white light. The second thing he noticed was the incessant beeping noise. He blinked rapidly, his ears ringing, his head throbbing.

_Beep beep beep._

Opening his eyes, James squinted at the source of the beeping. It seemed to be a machine. A green line ran across it, spiking and falling, spiking and falling.

He was in a hospital.

"Patient is awake."

James sat up as fast as he could, but he felt sluggish. His vision blurred and it felt like an explosion went off in his head.

A doctor, accompanied by a nurse, was suddenly putting hands on James's shoulders. He felt himself being pushed back into the pillows.

The doctor stepped back. He was wearing one of those weird mouth-masks that people wore to put up drywall and spray insulation. His nametag read "Rekto".

"What am I doing here?" asked James. His own voice sounded distant, slurred.

The doctor looked at James quizzickly. His eyes were dull, and baggy. James noticed that he was slouching heavily.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Then the Doctor looked down at a clipboard he was holding. The Nurse was writing something down on a clipboard attached to James' bed. She said, "Patient has no recollection of prior events."

The Doctor looked back up. He had a miniature flashlight and was shining it in James' eyes. It hurt.

"Hey... stop."

"Slight difference in pupil size. Concussion."

James put up a hand to push the Doctor's hand away, but it was already gone. The sound of a pen scribbling on paper.

"Ugh... seriously... what the hell am I doing here? Where's Justin?"

The Doctor and the Nurse exchanged glances. The Nurse turned back to her clipboard, muttering something about trauma. The Doctor turned back to James.

"Who is Justin?"

"My brother... didn't he bring me in?"

The Doctor's spectacles flashed brightly with reflected light. "You were brought in by a group of Stranded. Was your brother among them?"

"What... stranded? No, we weren't stranded anywhere. We were... we..." James' head began to throb. He forced himself to ignore it, shut his eyes tightly. "We were in my apartment. He was off work... so we started to play Gears of..." Now the pain was just too intense. James had to stop and put a hand to his temples. He suddenly realized that there was gauze wrapped around his head, and his fingers came away sticky.

"Gears? Why were you playing Gears?"

"I... I already told you... he was off work, so we had some free time."

"What do you mean by 'work'? What part of the city do you come from?"

"Ugh... Brown Oak College, the second apartment building. Why?"

The Doctor didn't respond. James decided to ask again.

"Why?"

"...Son, I'm afraid there is no Brown Oak College."

"What? What... do you mean?"

The Nurse's pen was scribbling in the background like a fingernail on chalkboard. James heard her say, "Patient is delusional."

He looked at the Doctor. The man was staring at him with that look the professors always gave students that weren't making any sense. Or the look that Dad gave to a problem he was trying to solve.

Finally the Doctor began to talk again. "Son, I'm afraid I'm going to have to put you under anesthetic."

"What? ...Why?"

But the Nurse was already putting something over James' face. He wanted to tell them that he was allergic to anesthetic, but he just couldn't seem to find the words.

The last words he heard as his vision dimmed were: "Prime material."


	3. Chapter 3

**Well I hope you're enjoying the story so far, or at the very least finding it interesting. Can't think of anything else to say other than: "man's nakedness in the face of the absurd." And "man's shitting himself in the face of the terrible."**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Gears of War.**

--

The smell of blood and sweat assaulted James' nostrils. People were screaming, crying, groaning. He could hear medical personnel dashing back and forth between beds, even hear the diagnosis they gave each patient.

But for the life of him, he couldn't open his eyes or move a muscle. He briefly wondered if he was dead.

"Patient is comatose." It was Dr. Rekto, the man with the glasses and tired, slouching posture. James could tell that he was talking about him, because he could feel the man checking his pulse. Did they not have machines that did that?

_Nope, not dead._

"Get me an IV, _quick_!" somebody yelled. He could hear several pairs of running footsteps and the screech of badly maintained hospital bed wheels. A man coughing and crying.

Dr. Rekto had moved on to the next patient. He maintained the tired monotone of an overworked man. "Patient is alert." He moved onto the next bed, his shoes squeaking softly on the linoleum. "Patient is dead."

_Shit. What happened, did the terrorists bomb us out?_

James would have given an arm and a leg to have been able to sit up and ask questions. But no matter how hard he strained, he couldn't so much as move his eyes behind his eyelids. It was frightening, to be so totally aware and yet have absolutely no control over the simplest of one's bodily functions. He wondered what would happen if he had a bowel movement.

A terrible smell suddenly reached James' nose. It wasn't blood, or sweat, and yet it was so much like the two. What was it? He knew he'd smelled it before.

Eureka. Pig guts. Except this wasn't pig guts, it was human guts. Another bed was being wheeled through the room at high speed, it's wheels screaming. No, wait, the screaming was a person. James couldn't tell if it was male or female, but as soon as he heard the electric doors snap shut, the smell of entrails dissipated.

_What the hell is going on?_

And then it hit him. Dr. Rekto's mention of Stranded. His touchiness when Gears of War was mentioned. The Nurse writing him down as 'Prime material.'

He was dreaming. He _had_ to be. All the textbook little details, like having absolutely no control of his body, feeling like he was in molasses, reality blending in with a video-game. And now that he knew he was dreaming, he could control it.

James willed himself to move. Nothing. He willed the dream to end. He woke up. Wait, no, he hadn't woken up. A Nurse was holding his eyelids open and shining a tiny flashlight into them.

_Shit that hurts. Lady, can't you see that's hurting my eyes?_

The Nurse closed his eyes and walked away, scribbling something on a pad.

Wait. Maybe this was all real. Maybe James wasn't dreaming, he was just... out of it. What if... what if he...

...What if the terrorists had bombed Brown Oak? Yes, that would explain everything. All the injured people. All the chaos. Dr. Rekto telling him there was no Brown Oak College. But what about his mention of Stranded? Maybe he could have been referring to people who had been stranded inside the campus, and had only just recently been able to get him to the hospital. Or maybe he had heard wrong. Yes, that's what it was. James had heard wrong and the Doctor was referring to... to...

For a moment James grasped at straws, trying to recall what type of public service sounded anything like Stranded. There was nothing even vaguely close. It had to have been a group of college students or staff.

But what about Justin?

_Shit!_

"Alright, wheel the patient to the comatose ward," said a brusque female voice with what seemed to be a Bronx accent. Somebody was gripping James' bed and tugging on it. He lurched against the pillows with the sudden movement.

"The vegetable farm?" asked a second voice in a sarcastic tone; it seemed to be a man in his late twenties, early thirties.

"Funny. We'll put the poor kid out of his misery if family doesn't come to collect him within twenty-four hours."

A door dinged and James felt himself being wheeled through it. The chaos of the first room was left behind, to be replaced by a disturbing... stillness. A sinister quiet.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit!_

Suddenly there was a muffled bang, almost like a jug full of milk bouncing off a floor. James' bed lurched to a stop. The disturbing stillness was instantly replaced by a series of screams, doctors yelling orders, beds being shoved in all sorts of different directions.

"Red alert! Evacuate all personnel! Evacuate all personnel!"

_Shit._

The sarcastic male voice sounded panicked. "What do we do with the veggies?"

"Bring them with us. As many as you can pull!"

Klaxon sirens were blaring all around, drowning out the screams of panicking patients. For a second James thought he heard Dr. Rekto cursing a colorful streak down a hallway. His bed was being jerked left and right, bouncing up and down on its metal frame. Whoever was on James' right stumbled and the bed jerked wildly. It was the man, because the woman screamed in outrage and gave a sharp tug.

James felt himself slip.

_Great. I'm going to slide off my bed and fall on the floor, and I can't do a fucking thing about it._

Now the bed was weaving back and forth. The cries of the injured and dying were overpowering the Klaxons now. James could feel himself slipping more and more to the right, towards the man.

_Just fucking great. Pay some attention, jesus christ!_

And then all of a sudden there was a loud scream and a series of earsplittlingly loud explosions, like gunfire. Something seemed to explode right next to James' ear, and wetness splattered on his face. The man screamed for just a split second and something slammed into the bed. James felt himself sliding off the gurney, then falling. His gut wrenched, flip-flopped, and then he hit the floor. It felt like he'd been hit by a truck.

It took a moment before James' breath came back. He had no control over it. He had no control over anything. Then something heavy fell across him after a second volley of gunfire, uttering a single cough. It was the man. Another series of earsplitting bangs, and the body seemed to shudder atop James. Something warm and wet began to stream over his face and chest. A hand was on his wrist, limp but still warm.

_Holy shit he's dead. Holy shit he's dead. Holy shit he's..._

Somebody coughed nearby, a hacking wet cough that could only mean more blood. It sounded like the woman. Then the sound of booted feet, massive booted feet, clomping on linoleum. At least four, no six, pairs of feet. There was a deep, guttural and inhuman growl. Something snarled, then roared. The woman coughed again and made a small wimpering sound.

The sound of a muffled explosion drowned out whatever happened next. There was the sound of a body flopping against linoleum and the splash of blood. The something roared again, barking and growling like some sort of demon out of hell. The footsteps started, moving rapidly back the way James' gurney had come from, unless that was just the echo and they were headed somewhere else. A few moments later he heard ragged gunfire, more roars, and even that seemed to fade into the distance.

James quivered. Whatever the hell had just happened, he had no way of knowing. All he knew was that he had just defecated on the floor, the body across his chest was getting heavier by the moment. He had to get up. _People will think I'm dead. I'm fucking covered in fucking blood, there's at least two bodies, and I'm covered in fucking blood._

Maybe it was the combination of the fall and the shock of death, the smell of shattered bowls right in his face, or the contrast of warm blood and cold floor. But whatever it was, James found that after a few minutes he was able to move his fingers and toes. Before long he had regained partial use of his right arm. He tried to push the body off of himself, but it remained too heavy.

Finally, with the use of his arms and legs mostly returned to him, James was able to roll the dead man onto the floor. His forearms came away warm and wet with blood. He didn't want to open his eyes. _If I open my eyes, I'll see it. _But then, if he saw it he might have answers to what the hell was going on. Radical muslim terrorists didn't growl and bark, didn't stomp around like giant monsters. And he knew for a fact that no AK-47 made the same gunfire sounds as he had heard.

Slowly, painfully, James pulled himself along on his hands and knees through the slick puddle of blood. The ramifications of what he was doing, what had just happened, began to hit him. He wanted to throw up. There was the smell of death and slippery guts, so pungent and so strong that it made his insides quiver with shame. With shame.

_I'm not guilty. I'm escaping, I'm the victim._ He tried to push the shame away, but it was only getting worse. Still, he kept his eyes closed and felt his way forward. His hand brushed against a solid concrete door frame. He traced the designs on it and found chips taken away, felt cracks and lots of rough areas. It almost felt like Gothic.

He wondered if he would ever get to complete his Architectual education at Brown Oak. He wondered if there still was a Brown Oak anymore.

Finally James came to a stair case. The explosions and gunfire hadn't stopped, but now he could hear screams and yelling men. A man's coarse voice came from nearby. It sounded like it had come from the bottom of the stairs, so James gripped the hand-rail and hauled himself up. Carefully, blindly, he eased himself down the flight until he found himself at the bottom. He went forward and found a wall, followed it to the right and found another wall that hugged the stairs. To the left and behind was another staircase.

The sound of gunfire and the yelling was almost deafening now. James was having trouble hearing anything but the shooting. There was another roar, loud and long, that was suddenly cut off. A man yelled something in a coarse voice that sounded like a swear word, but James couldn't be sure.

He wondered if he should really be going down these stairs, when it was so obvious that bullets were flying below. But shock and sheer terror drove him on; the sound of men, human beings, was like a magnet.

At the bottom of the second flight of stairs was a partially-opened door. Something was blocking it, something heavy. He felt too weak to push it, the blood on his arms and face and the blood that had soaked through his hospital gown was becoming colder and colder. He was shivering, he realized, crouched low and still keeping his eyes squeezed shut for no apparent reason other than he was scared. But he had to get out, had to get away from whatever the hell he had come from. The feeling of something monstrous creeping up behind him was too great. James began to cry uncontrollably, quivering like a mass of jello. He rammed his shoulder into the door. Whatever was blocking it gave a few feet and then stuck fast.

James had to get through the door, had to get away. He had to get away from what was chasing him! He forced himself into the now half-opened door, wedged himself against the doorframe. The doorknob dug into his stomach with painful force. The sound of gunfire was hammering in his ears right now, the sound of heavy objects slamming against walls and floors. Crashes of glass.

There was blood under James' feet. Still crying and shaking uncontrollably, he gave one final heave and pushed the door open. Gunfire exploded from all directions, as rounds ripped through what sounded like furniture and walls. Something laughed, a gutted, twisted laugh that couldn't possibly be human. More rounds ripped into objects around James. He threw himself to the floor.

Lying in a second puddle of blood, all James could think about was the sound and the smell. The smell was awful; like something had died months ago and was lying bloated, stinking on the carpet. He began to crawl forward, wanting to vomit but keeping his eyes screwed shut. He knocked against something metallic that sounded and felt like a gun. A very big gun.

Then something screamed. A machine-like roar, like the gunning of a turbo-charged engine, the sound of something gas-powered and screaming. The sound of a man was all that James could hear, a man charging across the room and carrying the roaring thing with him. Then one of the monsters roared. Something collided just over James' head. The roaring intensified until it was all that James could hear, until he could almost see it. The smell of smoke filled the air.

The monster began to scream. Something was beating, pounding. The roaring machine and the screaming man seemed to hit the monster like a truck. The sound of a chainsaw. The sound of a chainsaw biting into Locust flesh and digging its way deeper and deeper until there was nothing left to destroy. Blood splattered on James' hands and face. Something soft and wet slapped him in the face and disappeared. Pieces of something kept hitting him. The monster was still roaring, a desperate adrenaline-fueled death scream that seemed to go on forever.

And then suddenly it all stopped. The blood and chunks stopped raining. The man grunted and hit something; a loud thump as the monster toppled to the carpet floor. It was over. The raw, primal panting of the man told him that it was over.

It was over.

_It's over._

Something close to relief but closer to desperation flooded James' body. He forced himself to open his eyes.

Blinding light. Then, a shadow. A dim shape that seemed to take form the longer James looked at it. He had to be dreaming this. His mind was drawing this shape out of imagination. He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming.

Before him, looming high above the bloody, carpeteted floor that James cowered upon, partially concealed by a destroyed couch, was a heavily armored man smeared in blood and guts. The smell of disembowlment, stronger than ever before, made James retch onto the floor.

The armored man bent down over James. A deeply lined, scarred face still dripping with blood and splinters of bone, took over the young college student's field of vision.

"It's alright," said the man, putting a massive hand against James' shoulder, reassuring and protective. "The Gears are here now."

James couldn't think. Couldn't vomit, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Everything went black.

_The Gears are here now._


	4. Chapter 4

**Kind of an abrupt jump in locations between chapters here, but I guess James' feverish brain makes up for that shortcoming. Here we see him slapped around a little and introduced back to reality! Which is no longer the reality we all have come to love.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Gears of War.**

--

James was surprised at how short the journey was from the hospital, which was near the edge of safe territory as far as he could tell, to the streets of inner jacinto. The change was abrupt and startling. One moment he was walking uphill surrounded by dilapidated barracks and facilities, and the next moment he was on level ground, standing amongst well-tended buildings, surrounded by terraces, gardens, and bustling people.

Of course, the abrupt change was to be expected. He was dreaming, right? But when he looked back he was surprised to see that there was a transition, he had just missed it; the line between the civilian area and the military area. Walls and silent checkpoints were everywhere, within a few feet of James. Heavily armored Gears had roadblocks set up, and they looked like they were ready to shoot anything dangerous looking. Why hadn't they stopped him?

Well, they probably didn't ever stop anybody. After all, they weren't fighting other humans, they were fighting Locust. The physical differences were obvious and drastic. Besides, no Locust would come close to a barricade like that without opening fire or getting shot.

Deciding that it didn't matter, James continued on up the road. A few people waved hello every now and then, but James tried not to notice. He was worn out and found that flipping people off and insulting them didn't do much in a dream world.

After a few minutes of walking, the tightly packed buildings began to give way to grand, important structures. Gears and civilians mingled here, most of the former in grimy and worn battle armor, and many of the latter in crisp black suits. Weapons were in abundance here; James decided to see if he could get one. He tried the first Gear he walked close to.

"Hey man, know where I can get a gun like that?" James wondered why he didn't just take the one this guy was carrying. It was his dream, after all. But the man was huge; almost seven feet tall, with a jagged scar across his face and a murderous look in his eyes.

"The fuck do you need a weapon for?" growled the man, displaying his large lancer. "Fucking Stranded. Gonna steal one and run off with it?"

"Fuck you," replied James, stepping forward. "I'm no fucking Stranded. I bet I've killed more Locust than you."

The man stepped forward. James noticed that several people had stopped on the street and were watching him closely. He trembled slightly. Then he began to tremble a lot.

Suddenly, it didn't seem like a dream anymore.

"What did you say, punk?" the man asked, a deep growling voice that shook James to the core. He put his nose right in James' face, snarled.

"I said I've probably killed more Locust than you," repeated the young man, struggling not to stammer. He backed up a few steps.

The man advanced. "Oh really? Fucking baby skin. I bet you ain't ever held a gun before."

Now that was not true. James did not have baby skin, he'd just lost his tan. He'd grown up on a farm, handled guns, cleaned deer alone in the woods. Survived for two weeks with nothing but his tent, some water bottles, a .22 caliber rifle, and some beer. And he almost had the 'Seriously' Achievement on Gears of War.

Aw fuck, what the hell did his in-game kill count matter here?

There were two Gears behind James now. Both had Lancers in their hands, the huge weapons and their chainsaws dangerously close to James' back. One of the men, who had a red bandanna wrapped around his forehead, snarled like a dog and brandished his gun.

"Who the hell is this?" growled one of the two new men, a big strapping fellow in the armor that Marcus Fenix wore, in the game. The guy had a serious underbite and several missing teeth. James tried not to stare at him. He tried not to stare at any of them.

"Some drifter," spat the first man, the jagged scar on his face suddenly coming alive, focusing James' attention on it. Holy shit, even the scar had scars. James' leg was trembling and he could feel sweat running down his back, under his shirt. He tried to steady himself, tried to look tough. He failed.

The man with the bandanna gripped James by the shoulder with a huge, black-gloved hand, whipping him around. The man's grip was like Uncle John's "knuckle-buster" squeeze, but the rough fabric of the glove made it even worse. James checked and the stuff looked to be at least a fourth of an inch thick.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" the man snapped, giving James a sudden and very rough shove. He stumbled back, lost his footing, and fell backwards. The sickening feeling of falling merged with the raw fear and shock of being attacked. He hit the rough asphault and scrambled back up, backpedaling away. He didn't feel pain yet. No, he didn't feel pain at all. It was just a dream. He forced himself to stand.

The three Gears stalked up to James, almost surrounding him again. He stepped back a few steps. He had to fight, had to stand his ground, he reminded himself, and being surrounded was no good in a fight.

But these guys were too big to fight. And they were in full armor. With guns. And knives.

James was shaking now, gasping for breath. His whole body trembled and his shaking leg felt like it was going to give out on him.

The first Gear pointed a huge, gloved finger at James. He still had his Lancer in his laft hand. The whole thing was massive. "Listen here, you little motherfucker. You better watch your ingrateful little mouth, or I swear to the Cog that I'll take your head off!"

James gulped and did his best to hide his fear. He was almost six feet tall and close to two hundred pounds, he reminded himself, a farmer's boy and football player. He'd had fights before, even tackled guys as big as these Gears. He clenched his fists and raised them up to chin level, but his arms were so weak with fear that it seemed less like an aggressive fighting stance and more of a fearful defense. It was.

"You guys back the fuck off!" he yelled, but his voice broke and became a frightened, high-pitched plea for mercy. His gut tightened and he was shaking so much that the inside of his ears were beginning to itch.

The guy with the underbite stepped forward, sharp and fast. Way too fast for somebody in that much armor. James recoiled back and crouched low, bringing his hands up over his face. The man suppressed a laugh and the other two came at James.

"Shit, leave me alone!" pleaded James, stumbling backwards up the street. Several more Gears had joined in, and several civilians. People were yelling 'kick his ass' and 'show him his place'. A woman shoved him from behind, yelling something.

James reacted out of fear and anger.

"Get off bitch!" he screamed, whipping around. Before he could rationalize what he was doing he'd struck the woman in the face with both fists, not hard enough to knock her down but solid enough to make her stumble. She went backward, the terrible sound of a fist striking someone in the mouth still in the air. Shit, she wasn't even over his age.

The crowd went silent. In that moment, James knew he had gone beyond crossing a line.

Then a Gear, the first one with the big jagged scar, spun James around and slugged him hard in the stomach. James went into the air and folded over the massive arm that was propelling him backward. He kept his feet and found himself completely unable to breathe. In that moment, something collided with the back of his head and everything flashed black. He stumbled forward, unaware as to his own movements, and pitched forward onto his left shoulder. He cried out in pain and slowly forced his trembling arms to force himself up onto all fours.

A huge boot kicked James in the ribs, and he screamed. People were yelling 'son of a bitch' and 'motherfucker', right in his face. He was on his side and people were kicking him, in the ribs and stomach and back. He tried to get to his feet and a young man about his height slugged him in the face. Pain flared and he felt the shock of the punch in his nose.

James stumbled back, out of the crowd and onto a crumbling sidewalk, eyes tearing up. He reached a hand to his nose and felt blood, streaming out onto his face. He tried to look at his hand, to see how much blood there was, but his vision was too blurry.

It hurt. Oh, jesus christ, it really _hurt_.

The big Gear with the bandanna, or some other Gear of his general shape and size, surged into James' field of vision, yelling and swearing at him. "Why'd you hit a woman? Huh? Bitch!" The huge man shoved James with both hands, sent him stumbling back.

"Don't hurt me," pleaded James over and over, the words just flooding out in a slurry of tears and sobs. "I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to!"

The Gear shoved James again, even harder this time. He flew backward and slammed into a wall. Somebody punched him in the right side of the face at almost the same time, right in his cheek. The sound of bone on bone reverbrated in his ears, a gut-wrenching _crunch_ and a flash of debhilitating pain in his mouth and jaw, sending him reeling to the side.

One of the Gears, probably the one with the bandanna, surged forward and caught James as he fell, holding him so that only his heels touched the ground. He windmilled his arms, convinced he was falling backward. The Gear shook him, yelling wildly in his face. A huge man on steroids, wearing heavy armor and armed with a fucking chainsaw, was shaking him wildly.

Then a single huge hand had James by the chest and was lifting him into the air, so that the ground became a wall and he felt like he was going to fly into the stratosphere, or whatever equivalent for stratosphere there was here. And then the hand was bringing him back down, fast and hard. The Gear threw him to the ground.

The pain was unbelievable. James felt like a truck had just hit him, or a train. He lay there on the crumbling concrete, gasping like a fish out of water, unable to see straight or even hear right. He couldn't even move, his whole body was rigid and wracked with pain. His heart was pounding in his head like a drum.

One of the Gears was standing over James, crouched next to him and resting one hand on a bent knee. The other hand was jabbing at James' face with a huge glove, pointing and gesticulating at him. The man was yelling, but James couldn't hear him or understand him.

Finally it stopped. The blurry silouhette of the Gear stood up and walked away. A man walking by spat down, either hitting James in the neck or the collarbone.

After a few seconds, when he'd finally managed to get some of his breath back, James sat up and tried not to cry. But he was already crying, and once the water works had started he couldn't stop them. He sniffled and sobbed raggedly, reaching up with one hand to wipe away his tears and the other hand to dab at his nose with his shirt.

Why him, he thought. Why'd they have to beat up on him? Stupid assholes, they just didn't like him because they were assholes. Yeah, that's what it was. Stupid bitch, she'd hit him. He'd just hit back.

Except she'd just shoved him. He'd hit her twice, with fists.

He looked over, still wiping at his teary eyes and bloody nose. Dull and sharp pain lanced through his head and chest, his arms and stomach. He wanted to throw up and cough, to make the pain go away and never come back.

The woman he'd punched was half bent over, half crouching, some sort of weird position where she had her head tilted up. Other women, the guy that had punched James in the nose, and the Gears had her surrounded. The Gears walked away after a moment and James saw that the rest of the people were leading the woman away, to a nearby wooden and concrete-block bench, where they had her sit down. She was bleeding out of her nose at the very least, unless it was all from her mouth. She had both hands cupped to her mouth and the other people were trying to see what was beneath.

Oh god, had he knocked out one of her teeth. He looked at his hand, and it did hurt, but the only blood on it that he could see was his own. Yeah, the blood she'd had taken out of him. He sobbed and rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Unfair. It was all so unfair.

They loved her and not him. He was the victim. He'd been minding his own business and they'd beaten him up.

But that's not what happened, he thought. He'd been an asshole, he'd hit her, he'd provoked the crowd. He'd provoked the men on steroids. He'd hit a woman and provoked a bunch of men on steroids! _Suck it up, you big baby,_ he thought, wiping his tears away angrily and standing shakily to his feet. There was a terrible ringing in his ears.

Unsteadily, James crossed the street towards the group of women, hoping to apoligize but fearing he wouldn't be able to. In all his life he'd only hit two girls; once when he was six he had hit a girl at school in the back, and he'd hit his little sister with a rock a year later. But he'd never done it again, always tried to treat women with respect. He felt ashamed, angry at himself, for even calling the young lady a 'bitch'.

The three Gears were still nearby, noticed James, reaching up to his left side where his ribs hurt the worst. He glared daggers at the largest man, the one with the jagged scar and battered armor. The one who'd punched him in the stomach. He memorized the face.

Jet black hair, murderous green eyes, crooked fistfighter's nose, square jaw. Hair drawn back into a very short braid at the back of his head. Half his left ear missing. Modified armor, looked to be of the Marcus Fenix type.

A name floated over from the three Gears. _Gunthas._ The man with the red bandanna tied around the circumfrence of his head said the name, giving the big man a solid handshake.

_Gunthas._ James remembered the name, and the face. The thought occurred to him that if he ever got the chance, he'd see Gunthas lain at his feet in a pool of blood. He'd kill him.

Reaching the women, who were still fawning over the lady that James had hit, cooing and comforting, James tried to talk. Nothing came out but a strangled squeak. He tried again.

"Excuz me," he muttered, sounding like he had a bad cold because of his nosebleed. They didn't hear him, so he repeated himself. "Excuz me."

Two of the women turned around. One was wearing a grey uniform, an ugly bulky woman with grey hair and breasts that hang down to her stomach. She looked like that one character from the game, Anya Stroud, plus fifty years. Same platform high-heel shoes. What'd they call them? Pumps. Yeah, black pumps. The lady was a Dispatcher. Or Dispatch, whatever.

"What the fuck do you want?" the Dispatcher spat. James wiped at his nose as he replied.

"I... I just wanted to say sorry," he stammered, tasting blood as it ran into his mouth. He spat it out to the side, used his shirt sleeze to wipe at his nose again.

The other women had turned around now. They all looked furious, horrified, a couple of them even murderous.

"You little bastard. Hitting a girl. A girl! Didn't your mother teach you better?"

James nodded, flinging blood off the tip of his nose. It splattered on the black shoulderpiece of the Dispatcher, but she didn't seem to notice. "Yeh, my muther taught me. But I jus' reacded. I'm sorry, I din't mean to.."

The Dispatcher slapped James across the face, hard. Really hard. So hard that a long string of blood whipped halfway across the right side of his face, and went out into the street. He turned back with a shocked expression, both hands to his face.

"I sed I wuz sorry!" he exclaimed, tears welling in his eyes again.

The fat woman shoved a finger into James' personal space, jabbing him in the chest. People seemed to love to do this in Jacinto. She jabbed so hard it hurt. Her fingernails were like icepicks.

"You little bastard!" she snapped. "If you _ever _hit a girl again, any woman, I'll kill you! I'll have the Council of Sovereigns on your ass, and they'll send you to life in the Slab!"

The Slab? What was the Slab? James' mind, dulled by pain, could only grasp at the familiarity of the name, and nothing more.

For a split second two of the women parted, and James got a look at the girl he had hit. There was dark blood, globs of it, stringing from a swelling mouth to her chin, and then to a formerly green shirt. She was crying softly and didn't seem like she could close her mouth. A younger woman, about her age, was still tending to her. In her hands was a mixture of spit and blood, and a single tooth. A cold chill ran down James' leg.

"I'm so sorry," blubbered James, breaking down completely. He wiped at his nose again, but didn't know what else to do.

"Go away!"

"Fuck off, dipshit!"

Another of the women tried to slap James, but this time he dodged away and into the road. He turned and walked away, unable to stand this any longer. Before he went he caught a glimpse of the three Gears staring at him.

As he stumbled blindly back down the street, the pain in his face and body so shockingly powerful that he was losing his ability to think straight, James bumped into an armored Gear and nearly fell, but kept moving. The Gear called after him from beneath a muffling helmet, but whether it was in anger or something else James couldn't tell.

Only one thought played through his head as he lurched back and forth, splattering blood onto the concrete and asphault.

_We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto._


	5. Chapter 5

**Only one review so far (thanks btw), but that's fine with me because I'm only writing this story because I _love writing this story_! Woo! Already to the fifth chapter, and this is just a fragment of the tip of the iceberg. It's a story that I feel has a LOT of potential. Not you, because you the reader don't give a damn and you've seen hundreds, maybe even thousands, of stories like this. Well, here's a quote for you: "Every idea has been done already. It's the quality that makes them unique." That's from a favorite book of mine, 'Secrets of the Sages Volume II', which has nothing to do with the story so I'll stop there. Suffice it to say, the quality bar for this story is higher than Mount Everest for me, and I'm doing my best. So I hope you enjoy this and I really hope you don't lose interest.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Gears of War.**

--

"Holy shit, look at his face!"

Somebody gripped James by his jaw, squishing his cheeks. The pain in the right side of his face and his nose intensified.

"Get a rag."

"Hey, hey man, who did this to you? Who did this to you, man?"

James' eyes fluttered open. For a moment everything remained blurry, but he realized that he was lying on his back on a rough surface, and there were people standing or kneeling over him. There was a lot of talking and hushed whispering.

A man still had James by the jaw. He was thin, ragged looking, and exceedingly dirty. The smell was the worst, like rotten fish mixed with decaying roadkill and unchecked body odor.

"Hey, he's awake. You awake, man?"

"Here's the rag," somebody said, either an effiminate young boy or an equally effiminate young girl. "I soaked it with water."

The man who was holding James looked up at the disembodied voice, which sounded like a young girl. "Is it clean?"

The disembodied voice took form as James turned his head. It was a young girl, about sixteen or seventeen, wearing a ratty sweatshirt and old jeans. Her sandals were right next to James' face. She crouched down, long strands of hair trailing over her shoulders and cascading over her face, obscuring it in shadows. The loose sweatshirt hung by thin shoulders; James could see her cleavage.

The man who was holding James by the face took the wet rag from the girl and forced James to look up at him.

"Here, hold still while I get your face. You got a name, boy?" the man asked. He had thick hair that hung to his shoulders and looked greasier than pepperoni pizza. His nose was fat, the shadows of his eyebrows obscured his eyes in shadow, and his beard was speckled with bits of stinking food and crud. If James hadn't known better, he would have thought the man to be a Hippie. He even wore a headband, a dirty green bandanna apparantly meant to keep his dirty hair out of his eyes.

"Yeh, my name is James," he replied. The man balled the wet rag up and pushed it up against James' nose, scrubbing vigorously and prompting much more pain. He began to wipe at both of James' cheeks.

"Who did this to you, man?" asked another guy standing nearby with his hands in the pockets of a moth-ridden gren vest. Like the Hippie guy, he was unshaven and had long hair. They looked related.

James didn't quite know how to respond. The utter absurdity of the situation hit him like yet another slap in the face. How was he supposed to word this?

The girl reached down past the bare arm of the Hippie guy, grabbing James' shirt collar. She rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger.

"You sure did bleed a lot. Did the COG do this? Did they rape you or something?"

The Hippie guy sat back on his haunches and tossed the bloody rag onto James' face. He picked it up and forced himself to sit up on his elbows, ignoring the pain inflicted by whatever rough material he was sitting on. "The Gears didn't rape me," he said in a stopped-up voice, wiping at the side of his face and his neck with the rag. A thin trickle of blood ran from his left nostril, through the water, and into his shirt. "They just beat me up."

The guy with the vest stepped back and looked over his shoulder. James tried to see the girl's face beneath her hair.

"We should get out of the street," said Vest guy, like he was talking to himself. He turned and slapped Hippie guy on the shoulder a few times. "Let's get out of here. Patrol's moving up the street."

Hippie guy nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on some point above James' head. "Yeah, I see 'em." He looked down at James and shook his shoulder, averting his attention from the girl's face, which was still hidden behind her hair. "Hey man, let's move."

James nodded and struggled up onto one knee, holding the bloody rag to his face. He looked around and suddenly realized where he was.

There were low buildings everywhere, formerly automobile shops and hardware stores, as well as the converted remains of a Diner nearby. Sheet metal and wood had been set up on every square inch of open space, except for a narrow path up the center of the street. Chainlink fences seperated many of the crude shanty houses, which were all filled to the brim with dirty men, women and children that all reeked of body odor and disease. Stranded. They were Stranded.

The girl and Hippie guy grabbed James by his shirt and half-lead, half-dragged him into the shade of one of the nearest shanty houses. As he went, James caught a glimpse of a group of heavily armored men, at least six Gears, working their way down the choked, crumbling road. Stranded that had been seated outside scrambled into the shadows, retreating before the Gears and dragging young children with them.

Once inside the small amalgation of corrugated tin and other trash from a by-gone civilization, James was seated on a small wooden stool that creeked beneath his weight. The girl took the rag from him and disappeared into the shadows of an adjacent room. Hippie guy and Vest guy moved over to a pot full of boiling broth suspended over a small fire. A propane tank sat nearby, supplying the fire itself. Several more propane tanks could be seen stacked in a corner. Both men sat down and started whispering quietly, stirring the broth in the pot and occassionally stealing glances at James.

The girl reappeared from the other room, followed by a much older woman with graying hair and breasts that hung nearly to her waist. The older woman was carrying something that looked like a rat.

James did a double-take. It _was _a rat.

The girl offered something to James, shoving it into his hand. It was the rag. "Here. I rinsed it out. Don't worry, the water's been boiled."

James nodded. "Thanks." He put the rag back to his face and blew his nose softly. The blood flow had slowed to the occassional droplet, albeit very large droplets that dribbled out every few seconds.

The older woman stalked over to the two men and stole the ladle, sampling the broth. She put the rat under Hippie guy's nose; he sniffed it, nodded and said something along the lines of "smells good, lots of meat." She returned to the adjacent room, and the two men returned to their conversation.

"My name's Joni Rosario," said the girl, pulling a second stool and sitting on it with her hands clasped. "What's yours?" James could see most of her breasts again, the sweatshirt obviously far too big for her. They were nice and plump, he observed. He wouldn't mind seeing more of them.

"James Cargaille," he replied. "What's your story? Why's everybody cooped up in here? This thing's built right up against a real building, isn't it?"

The girl, Joni, tilted her head to one side and made a sort of smile. Her hair cascaded across one side of her face, creating a myriad of shadows in the firelight. She was absolutely beautiful, the type of Castilian beauty seen only among women in Spain, northern Italy and parts of America. Despite the fact that she was close to rail thin, she looked relatively healthy and content.

"Well, since you asked so politely..." she began, twirling a finger in her hair and smiling. She was obviously flirting with him. "The man wearing the headband is my father, Cresconio Rosario. The other man is my uncle, Vistruario Rosario. The woman is my step-mother, Grana Bianchi de Rosario. The kids... where are those kids? They must be in the building. Anyway, the kids are my half-siblings. The youngest is five."

_Christ,_ thought James, _That lady looks like she's at least eighty years old._

"Anyway," continued Joni, "We're sharing the place with a bunch of other families, and they've pretty well got the old convenience store filled up. This is just the front yard, kitchen, and living room for the place."

A couple young boys wandered in through a door, which opened into near darkness; apparently the Stranded didn't have much light. One of the kids looked like he was fifteen; the other didn't look any older than ten, but had his arm drawn up in a ratty sling. Neither wore shoes, but the older boy wore sandals and the younger wore shitty socks. They wore patched jeans and moth-ridden jackets with no undershirts. The older boy had a green cap in his left hand.

"Hey, there's two of the kids now." Joni pointed to the older boy, who made for the fire where Cresconio and Vistruario sat. "That's Sarracino. He's the oldest of the eight. Fourteen. He wants to be a Gear one day, but I don't think papa will let him. And that," she said, pointing to the younger boy as he made for the tiny kitchen, "Is Fagildo." She giggled.

_Fag dildo,_ thought James with a wry smirk, suppressing a laugh. _That name's gotta suck._

"So how did Fagildo hurt his arm?"

Joni put a hand on one knee and grinned from ear-to-ear. "He jumped a wretch and killed it with his bare hands. It sank its teeth into his forearm."

Wretches. Small gangly monsters with jagged teeth and long forearms. Monkey-dogs.

James leaned back on his stool and popped his back. His nose had stopped bleeding but everything still hurt. "So why did he jump a wretch? Seems a little stupid to me." It reminded him of the time Justin had jumped on a full-grown Boar's back and tried to wrestle it to the ground. That was when they'd been kids, so James couldn't remember anything other than Justin being furious and covered in mud.

The look on Joni's face grew serious. "The wretch was attacking Enderquina. The youngest girl. She's just six, but she'll have such bad scars." She stared into space, more than a little sadly.

James decided he needed to change the subject. "So where is this place?" He gestured up at the ceiling and twirled his finger.

The girl seemed shocked. "Why, this is the Temporary Housing Blocks. The tee-aych-bee. Two hundred people packed into three square blocks."

"That's a lot of people."

"Right." She spat on the floor and ground it into the dirt with her shoe. "Not even enough water to go around. We're lucky, we've got a water pump that's connected to the Jacinto pipelines. But we have to share with so many people, there's barely enough for ourselves." She looked sad.

"So how long do people stay here? Why do people stay here?"

Joni regarded James with a look of mild surprise and disdain. "Those Gears must have beat your head in a lot more than... Cogs, what the hell. Some people have lived here for years. The place is just barely within the boundaries of the granite 'safety zone'. The street's cracked in half between the two blocks, makes a nice little ten-foot cliff, because of all the Locust activity. Gears are everywhere. The only reason people stay here is because we're supposedly COG citizens... we're just waiting to be processed."

"Processed?"

"Tagged, asigned housing, given ration cards, forced into jobs or military service. A lot of people in the other block, of course, have declared themselves 'seperate and indepedant.' They're always pissing the Gears off, making them take it out on the rest of us. We're all the same in their eyes."

James nodded and conversation tapered off. The two men and teenager in the corner carried on a hushed conversation. The boy, Sarracino, was staring at him.

Suddenly, an idea occured to him. The proverbial light bulb clicked on.

"Hey Joni," he said in a low voice, wiping his nose. "Do you know anyone else with my last name, Cargaille? Specifically a _Justin _Cargaille?"

Joni's face lit up for a split second, but it was not in happiness. Then her face drooped, as if defeated. "No, I'm sorry, I don't know any Justins. Not living, anyway. Why? Does he owe you a favor?"

A feeling of excitement hit James in the gut. Slowly, then quicker and quicker, it began to build until it was an explosion of ecstasy. With a start, he realized he was standing and he had knocked over his seat. He contained himself with an effort and spoke slowly.

"So were there any Justins that you did know?"

Joni nodded. "Yeah. A few years back, there was this guy that everybody called 'Judge'; I think I heard papa call him Justin a few times. But he moved on, didn't stay very long. There was another Justin before that, some old man with one eye, Vistruario knew him. But I think that he died last year, during the winter."

A shock of excitement hit Justin again. _Judge._ The name registered instantly, an old nickname of Justin's for a few years in High School. Instantly the dam burst.

"Do you know where he went? Is there anybody that knows where to find him? Is he in the city? What about Jacinto?"

With a start, James realized that he was gripping Joni by the shoulders, roughly. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open, confused and shocked. He'd jumped forward and... grabbed her. He removed his hands and cast a glance in the direction of the Stranded men.

Sarracino was on his feet, just slowing from a short sprint. He reached James in three quick strides and threw up his arms, both hands clenched tightly into fists.

"Hey man, get your hands off my sister!" the boy cried. He shoved James roughly, pushing him back a step.

Murderous thoughts multiplied in James's head, but he forced them aside and ignored the clutter of sudden anger in his head. Things began to happen quickly, far too quickly.

"Look dude, I didn't mean any harm, I just got excited!"

Sarracino drew back a fist and stepped forward, forced James back again. "What the fuck man, excited? I'll kick your ass, how about you get excited about that? Get bent, bitch!"

James hopped back a little, so that he was in the darker shadows, and bounced on his heels a bit. He flexed his muscles, ignoring the soreness, and strafed right in case the tan-skinned teenager came at him. Sarracino followed his every move, obviously looking for any excuse to start a fight. James wasn't worried too much; he had at least ninety pounds on the kid, plus two and a half feet and some muscle. The teenager was stringy muscle, sloppy with his movements and obviously a wild fighter. James had control.

But he wondered; Stranded would be tough, wouldn't they? They survived on rats and shit, thrived in cess pits and Locust territory. Right? A hint of doubt was allowed to creep into James's mind.

Then, just as it looked like Sarracino was just about to yell something, and James was about to yell something in reply, Cresconio interjected with a booming voice.

"Hey, fucktard! Back off, or I'll break my foot off in your ass." The man stood, sweeping his long hair to one side and gesturing for Sarracino to move himself back to the fire. Then Vistruario turned and glared at James.

"You, nosebleed. Keep your hands to yourself, or I'll put you right back where we found you. Got that?"

James relaxed, replying "Yes sir, sorry," and moved back into the light as Sarracino left it. But his heart was pounding and his thoughts were racing, his muscles trembling, their soreness forgotten for the moment. He picked the discarded stool back up and set it down carefully, before allowing himself to sit on it. Joni was standing on her feet, trying to hide an obvious smile with one hand and a fake glare.

When the men had returned to their firelight conversation, Joni sat down and scooted her own stool closer to James's.

"Look, nosebleed," she muttered. "I don't know anything about 'Judge' except that he ran a posse of men around here and did it dirty with some Locust one time. I couldn't tell you where he might be right now, but maybe papa or Uncle Vistruario can dig something up. Just keep your hands off of me, and the rest of the girls around here; I don't know what orgy-friendly camp you came from, but around here... guys are real protective of their girls. Deal?"

James nodded, feeling anxiety set in and mix with embarrassment. He nodded. "Deal."

They shook hands and Joni stood up, walking calmly over to the firelight in the corner. James managed to tear his eyes from her swaying butt, and caught a glimpse of Sarracino, glaring at him with an evil eye. A knife flickered in one rough, bandaged hand. Fear threw itself into the pot with anxiety and embarrasment.

Joni didn't take long explaining to her father and uncle the situation. In the meanwhile, mama Grana and little boy Fagildo came out of the kitchen with a vat of steaming broth, and had Sarracino sample it. He nodded briefly, ruffled his brother's hair fondly, and then turned back to James.

The knife flickered again, and the boy mouthed something that seemed like "warning" and "sister". James took the hint, wishing that he was somewhere else right now.

With Marchetta after Economy 101, laughing on the College lawn, beneath the oak tree. With Justin, plowing trucks through muck and mud on the backroads. With the fraternity guys from Alpha Sigma Phi.

Cresconio appeared in the light, arms akimbo. He snorted and blew some hair out of his eyes. Vistruario appeared next to him, and behind him, Joni. The vague outline of Sarracino was nowhere to be seen.

"Alright nosebleed. You want to know about Judge?"

James stood uneasily and nodded. "Yes sir." He realized that Cresconio was actually taller than him, by at least several inches, even if he was rail thin.

Vistruario stepped forward, his ragged facial hair hiding any expression and masking most of his face in shadows. He offered a dirty sun-browned hand, which James shook. "Alright, James is it? How well you know the city?"

"Not very well," replied James, unable to extricate himself from Vistruario's grip without appearing rude. "Sir."

Cresconio nodded, brows lowering to obscure his eyes in shadow. "Alright, guess that makes you a dumb nosebleed." He turned to Vistruario and talked with a lower voice. "We'll start with Nelson."

Vistruario shook his head and let go of James's hand, leaving behind white pressure marks. "Naw, let's start with Benson. He has more reliable contacts deeper in."

Joni interjected with a restrained voice. "What about Elior? Or Gluke?"

There was a moment's pause and something sloshed in the background. A loud hiss of steam and the sound of something being poured. Fat Grana called from the far corner lit by firelight. "Yeah? And what about Nasim? Or Jane?"

Another voice, unfamiliar and prepubescent, probably Fagildo, squeaked from the blackness. "Anh Dung! Anh Dung knows everything!"

Sarracino yelled back, angrily. "Shut up, Anh Dung doesn't know shit! And you don't know what we're talking about, do you?"

Cresconio turned around and slapped something, probably Sarracino, upside the head. "Hey fucktard, shut up! You aren't a part of this conversation either. I say we start with Nelson."

"Yeah, fucktard!" yelled Fagildo smugly. "And you're only jealous because Anh Dung whipped you in a fight!" James heard a door open and close swiftly, and someone running through it.

Sarracino cursed loudly, and made for the door, but Vistruario reached back, caught him by the collar, and shoved him roughly towards one of the walls. He rubbed his hands together as if to rid himself of dirt and smiled beneath his beard. "Alright then, its settled. We start with Nelson, then move on to whoever's closest."

"Elior's just across the street," interjected Joni. Cresconio didn't reply to her, and Vistruario only opened his mouth for a second before closing it.

Both men turned to James. "Alright, nosebleed," said Cresconio. "This a deal? You'll owe us for this. Big favor. We got a supper that'll probably get gone before we get back."

James nodded and started to say, "Yes sir."

Then he remembered the scene in Gears of War, when Dom had forced that Franklin guy to give him his Junker. Shit, what did he have to give to these men if nothing turned up? What if they wanted the favor back as soon as they turned up a lead or decided to quit? He wondered what he was getting up to, then shoved the thought down.

Jason was out there, somewhere.

"Yes sir," he said, with a note of finality and determination in his voice.

_Unless Justin doesn't exist in this world._


	6. Chapter 6

After the pact was cemented with handshakes, Cresconio and Vistruario took James back into the building, through the peeling door. Inside, things were just as shitty as outside, but it was better lit on the far side. The place seemed to be just one big room, with two square concrete pillars in the back, laced with rebar, some of which was exposed. It appeared that a load bearing wall had collapsed, filling half the room with rubble, unless it was part of the ceiling. Either way, a cluster of Stranded were squatting on top of it, surrounding a flickering lamp. Down below, an old countertop was piled with pieces of junk, canned food, bullets and weaponry. A large propane-powered lamp was situated on the counter, up against one of the concrete pillars.

There were Stranded everywhere in the room. Kids, a couple teenagers, adults, old people, most of them in various states of ill-health. A few greeted the gritty Rosario brothers, or asked them how things were going outside. A little girl that resembled Joni but wore just a very baggy shirt ran up and wrapped herself around Vistruario's leg, then ran to Cresconio, who picked her up and laughed happily.

"Daddy!" the girl yelled, squeezing her arms around her father's head, messy hair and all.

Cresconio expertly disentangled himself from the girl and held her at arm's length. She looked as frail and lightweight as a baby. "Hey Ines! What are you doing today?"

The girl reached her arms out and giggled. "Playin' wit' you, silly." She giggled again.

"Well," sighed Cresconio, "Daddy can't play right now." He looked over his shoulder at James. "He and Uncle Vistruario need to take this young man to find his brother."

Ines pouted, not necessarily angrily, but more like she was crestfallen. She grabbed her father's leg. "Wanna come wit' you."

Vistruario bent down as Cresconio stood up. "Sorry honey. It's almost night time, and your daddy and I are going to be talking to some bad people."

Ines raised her arms to Cresconio, pleadingly. "Wanna come wit' you!" she stated again, still reaching. Cresconio just shook his head and walked past her, as did Vistruario. James followed them, but as he did the little girl stuck her tongue out at him and ran away, barefoot.

Near the junk strewn countertop, an old man with white hair, a huge bald spot and a blindfold wrapped around his head sat with a cane between his legs. He sat motionless until Cresconio walked up to him and knelt down in front of him. Vistruario moved to the counter and began shifting through some of the junk.

The old blind man spoke without moving. "Cresconio. You seem tense."

"We found a boy in the street, really beat up. He says he's looking for his brother, some guy named Justin. Have you ever heard of any Cargailles?"

The old man paused before answering. "No. I've never heard the name before."

Cresconio shifted as he knelt. Finally he spoke. "Well, me and Vistruario are taking him around to talk to some people, see if we can find anything."

"It's almost nighttime."

"We'll be back before dark."

The old man didn't say anything for a few seconds. Vistruario had selected a boltok pistol off the counter and was checking it, turning it this way and that at arms length.

Finally the old man spoke. "Boy, come here."

James felt a start. He turned, looking around for other boys or young men. There was nobody else. He turned back around, found Cresconio glaring at him, making the universal gesture for "get the fuck over here" with his right arm. Gulping, James walked over on hesitant, uncertain feet.

The man didn't shift. "Hurry up, I won't hurt you," he said in a dry, whispery voice. "I'm just an old crippled blind man."

Up close, James could tell that the old man had some sort of skin disease. His whole body was skin and bones, covered only with a tattered white robe that looked like it hadn't been taken off in many years. The man's bald head, ringed with wispy white hair that stuck out past his ears, was speckled with liver spots and covered, like the rest of his body, in flaking skin. Beneath a trimmed full-mouth goattee, the man's dry lips moved like he was licking his lips.

"Mmm. Been in a hospital long, have you? At least a month, probably more."

James nodded, then realized that the blind man couldn't see him. "Yes sir."

The old man nodded and tapped the top of his white cane with a bony finger. "Mmm. Yes. I can smell blood and feces on you as well."

"Yes sir," replied James. "Bunch of Gears jumped me, just about broke my fucking nose."

The old man's face froze in a neutral state. Cresconio turned to James angrily, fiercely. He stood and took an aggressive step forward, as if to protect the old man, fists out to the side.

"You _insolent_..." hissed Cresconio. "We do not _swear_ in the vicinity of the _Padre_."

James raised a hand in front of his face, suddenly feeling the pain and soreness again, the swelling in his cheeks and lip. "Yes sir, sorry sir."

Cresconio growled. "And stop calling me 'sir'." He turned back to the padre and stood watching him for a moment.

The old man spoke slowly and deliberately. "Young man, Cargaille... you are very ill-tempered. Insolent, foul-mouthed, hard-headed. I would even say, narcisissitic and lying."

James felt like somebody had just punched him in the gut. He gaped, feeling completely helpless and... somehow, naked. Like he'd been stripped of a veneer he didn't even know he had. Who the hell did this old man think he was?

The Padre raised a quivering hand and spoke once more. "Boy, your insolence will be the death of you. Be gone, youth."

Cresconio turned to James, glared once more through furrowed eyebrows, and moved to the countertop. James hesitated, casting a bewildered and angry glance at the Padre, before he, too moved to the countertop.

The counter was strewn with more than just junk, canned food and munitions. James saw a dozen, if not more, needles in packaging, some morphine that was probably stolen, some COG identity tags, a few bottles of liquor, and even some tools like wrenches and screwdrivers. A man sat behind the counter, formerly hidden behind the stained concrete pillar. He was bald with liver spots and wore an eyepatch, as well as a full-mouth goattee of black, grey and strands of white. A t-shirt bulged with a surprising amount of muscle; it looked like one of the t-shirts that US Marines wore in Iraq and Afghanistan, green and with one chest pocket, stained here and there with the years. A set of slightly rusted COG-Tags revealed that he had probably once been a Gear.

"Keep your hands off the merchandise," growled the man at James. He was sitting on a stool, leaning against the concrete pillar with both arms crossed across his chest. James noticed that there were too bolo grenades on the counter, hidden by bottles of whiskey and covered cans of beer.

"Are these frags?" asked James, pointing.

The ex-Gear growled like a dog, and James backed away. The grenades looked at least twice as big as he envisioned them; the spiked heads, ornamented with rust and scratches, were at least two thirds as big as his head.

Cresconio selected a boltok pistol similiar to Vistruario's, and they both strapped them on with their holsters. The thick leather holsters looked hand-made, but huge with the sheer size of the boltoks. The things had to be the size of hand-cannons, as big and heavy as a human head, if not heavier. Both men pocketed a few extra rounds, short but wide and big enough to turn a rabbit into runny red jell-o.

Vistruario hooked his thumb to a back door that James hadn't noticed, hidden in the corner but illuminated by light from outside, apparantly from a hole in the ceiling above. There must have been an attic somewhere up there.

"You ready?"

"Yeah," replied James, remembering Cresconio's order not to call him "sir", and then wondering if it applied to Vistruario.

"Well then," stated Cresconio, spinning the cylinder in his boltok and checking it carefully with his thumb. "Let's go."

He holstered the pistol with the sound of metal rubbing leather, and buckled it shut.

--

**Sorry for the long wait! I would make this chapter longer but I'm trying to get myself back into the writing process. So it's something easy.**

**Read and Review, please. Feedback! I need FEEDBACK.**


	7. Chapter 7

James picked at a fresh scab on his lip as he sauntered along behind Vistruario and Cresconio. Really, it was more comparable to a hike. There was rubble everywere where whole walls had come crashing down into the streets. It was possible to simply climb up a pile of shattered masonry right up into the third or even forth floor of some buildings. And there were twisted, burnt out cars here and there, stripped clean of everything but their frames. But there were almost no Stranded, though James could see their yards and shanty houses on his right.

"Got any idea where you're going?" called one of the Stranded that James _could_ see. He was an older man, fifties or sixties, resting on a chair he'd apparently scrapped from a car, in what passed for a back yard surrounded by trash and scrap. The man's 'fence' looked like it would collapse if a butterfly landed on it... like something out of Looney Tunes. Or something.

Cresconio stopped for a moment and made to lean on part of the fence, but then appeared to stop himself. It looked like he shared James's sentiments and kept his arms off the makeshift structure.

"Yeah, Morri, I know where I'm going. Looking for a man used to hang around here. Called him Justin. Know anything about him?"

"Only what you know, Cressy boy," replied Morri from his comfortable car chair. He took a pull from an old canteen he was holding. "Who's the boy?"

Cresconio rolled his shoulders. "Calls himself James Cargaille. Coupla Gears pistol-whipped the shit out of him. We found him lying in the street."

Morri seemed to squint at James for a while, sizing him up. He pointed a finger with the hand that held his canteen. "You, boy. Related to ol' Judge t'all?"

James opened his mouth to speak but caught himself. He had no way of knowing if this Justin was his brother or not, especially in a world where everything seemed to work by the laws of a videogame.

"No idea," he replied instead. "Just know I'm looking for my brother and this Justin shares his nickname." He licked the scab on his lip and tried to move behind Cresconio or Vistruario, to look less conspicuous.

"Alright," called Cresconio, "See you later Morri." He waved and turned back to the shattered street, as did Vistruario. James tagged along close behind the two of them, casting one last glance over his shoulder at Morri.

The man was still sitting in his car seat propped up on cinderblocks, taking another long pull from his looted canteen. But his eyes were fixed firmly on James.

James felt a shiver run down his spine and quickened his pace to catch up with the Rosario brothers. They had already passed the next makeshift yard, this one prominent owing to the smashed asphault in front of it. The "yard" itself had once been a small parking lot for an embroidery boutique. Years of underground tremors and minor earthquakes had left the parking lot split and cracked, and now hardy weeds grew throughout it.

Cresconio turned right at the end of the next building after the boutique. Between this building, which appeared to either have shy occupants or none at all, and the next one was a narrow alley. There was a man smoking a cigarette just inside said alley, but neither Rosario brother acknowledged him and he didn't seem to notice them either. As James passed him by the man only buried himself deeper in his tattered jacket and pulled his faded cap, which read "Cougars" down over his eyes.

James wondered where the man had got the pack of cigarettes.

The Rosario brothers stopped halfway down the gloomy alley at a relatively nice looking metal door on the left. It had no external doorframe, so it blended in well with the walls of the building it was built into.

Vistruario knocked twice on the door, hard enough to produce a metallic banging sound. "Hey Nelson, you in there?" he called. There was no answer, so he banged his fist on the door two mores times. Somebody shouted from inside the building.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you! Let me get the damn door 'fore you_ knock it down_."

The door opened to reveal a heavyset man in his late forties or early fifties. His hair was white and he wore a bushy moustache that covered the entirety of his upper lip. And he was chewing tobacco.

If James didn't know better, he'd say this Nelson guy looked more like some of the Rednecks he'd known back home than a Stranded. How in the world was he so fat? He had to weigh a good ninety pounds, maybe a hundred, more than Cresconio or Vistruario. And they were fairly strong men by James' reckoning.

Nelson's eyes lingered on Vistruario for only a second before they shot to the other Rosario brother. "Cresconio!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide as if to hug the tattered, dirty man. James was disgusted to see that Nelson's armpit hair was as white as that on his face and chest... and his chest hair, for that matter. "Been weeks since I last saw you. Where you been, man?"

He even _sounded_ like a Redneck. Well, a Redneck that was trying to sound hip, or cool. And his breath was absolutely pungent with the odor of tobacco; it was strong enough to make even Vistruario visibly disgusted. The bearded man's nose was wrinkled and he looked like he was trying to hold his breath.

Cresconio nodded at Nelson to shut him up. "Yeah, four days Nelson. It's only been four days."

Nelson frowned and Vistruario took a deep breath. "Four days? Whada'ya mean only four days?" He shook his head and waved a chunky pale hand. "Whatever, get your asses in here 'fore the damn COGs see ya'." The fat man ushered everybody in, not even noticing James. He must have seen a lot of people he didn't know and gotten used to ignoring them.

Just inside the metal door was a short staircase of concrete steps that led into the building itself. While Vistruario stayed behind to close and lock the door, James marched up the steps, ignoring the pain in his back and ribs. The smell of cheap liquor and cigarette smoke permeated the building, so much so that James could almost see it in the air.

In fact, he _could_ see it in the air. Somebody inside was smoking something very, very cheap.

Nelson wandered over to a chair on the opposite side of the room and lowered himself into an old armchair next to an equally old card table, both of which would have seen better days in hell. The heavyset pale Stranded grunted and groaned as he sat. He immediately reached for beer bottle and drew it to his lips. James' stomach lurched when he realized that the stuff inside the bottle wasn't beer at all. Nelson snorted loudly and hocked up viscous brown liquid straight into the bottle. He wiped his upper lip with the rim and set the bottle back down on the card table.

"So," began Nelson, clasping his fat hands over his even fatter gut. "What'd you boys bring me? Vittles, licker or smokes?"

Cresconio, who had seated himself in a much smaller chair about seven feet away from Nelson, clasped his own hands in front of his knees. "Nothing for you," he said. "But we're still looking for information. Just thought we'd cash in on one of those favors you owe us."

Nelson's eyes narrowed to a squint. James noted that they were red and watery, so much so that his own eyes wanted to start watering.

Vistruario had entered the room by now and was standing in a corner, arms folded. "Remember when the grubs were knocking on your door?" he asked. "That's good for a lot of something."

There was a brief pause as Nelson seemed to get his bearings. James tried not to breath too much of the smoke in the room, but neither of the Rosario brothers seemed affected by it.

"So whada'yew boys want?"

Vistruario seemed to glaze his words with honey. "Not much. Just a little information about a man. Remember the Judge?"

Nelson nodded, looking somewhat suspicious but a little pleased. Did he have information? "Yeah, I recall a man called Judge. His name was Justin, weren't it?"

Cresconio nodded.

"Good, good. Damn fine man, but a bastard all the way to the damn core!" Nelson made a loud sound that seemed something like a laugh. "Yup, hard as nails and tough as a carbuncle on a grub's ass. Where'd he get to, anyway?"

There was a short pause before Nelson realized he'd said the wrong thing.

Cresconio sighed and pulled himself out of the ratty chair. Vistruario simply turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"Waste of a favor," muttered Cresconio as he passed James. "C'mon nosebleed, let's go."

"Hey!" called Nelson from his chair, louder than necessary. "The hell're you boys lookin' fer Justin for?"

James turned and headed for the door. Vistruario, who had just passed him, only raised a hand over his shoulder. "Nothing to tell," he replied, and danced down the stairs. James followed at a slower pace, the weight of disappointment heavy in his gut. He wondered how much heavier it would get before the day was over.

Vistruario slammed the door, hard. He paused long enough to say a few words to James. "Sorry 'bout that nosebleed. Maybe Benson'll know something."

James nodded. "Yeah. Hopefully."

The scab on his lip was soft and painful by the time James realized he hadn't even found a place to sit down in Nelson's building. But by then the Rosario brothers had left the alley behind and James found himself standing on what had once been the sidewalk to the road that now ran through the THB.

Neither of the Rosarios stopped the moment they'd left the alley behind, instead immediately cutting across the street at an angle and continuing on up the sidewalk. James followed quickly, pausing momentarily to look left and right for cars before he remembered that there were no cars. He felt embarrassed and jogged to catch up.

The Temporary Housing Blocks were absolutely packed full of people. From every former parking lot, to doorway there were men, women and children. People were seated in old lawn chairs, car seats, on cinderblocks, and even an old stove that several children were dangling their feet off of. Chainlink and tin fences seperated most of the buildings from each other, so James had a sense of people divvying up property and fighting private battles to hold onto it. Some groups seemed to control whole buildings, or even spilled over into two. He wondered how often this property changed hands, and how.

Then he wondered why the hell the COG would have so many potential civilianas, potential Gears, and not even pay more attention than a few heavyhanded patrols. Joni had said some people lived their whole lives here... how long had a slum like this existed on the edge of Jacinto? How many fighting men had come and gone here without ever having the chance, or even the want, to enlist as Gears?

_Woah there James_, he thought. _Starting to think a little too deeply there._

He quickened his pace to catch up with Vistruario and Cresconio, but found that they had already come to a stop just in front of a rather large canvas tent. There seemed to be a lot of these, or at least tin and scrap structures that took the place of tents. Well, it was less of a tent and more of a very crude shack, but it still stank to high heaven. What was in there?

Cresconio turned to James suddenly, his eyes narrowed and a finger pointing almost accusingly. "Now, listen closely nosebleed. Benson runs a sort of a business around here, and we can't have you drawing too much attention to that business. So..."

Vistruario turned to his brother. "He can come in, Cresconio."

"What do you mean?" asked Cresconio. He cast a wary eye on James, who suddenly realized just how out of place he was feeling.

"Look at the kid's face," stated Vistruario, pointing with his whole hand. "The COG beat the everloving shit out of him. He's probably got brain damage, or something. Delayed symptoms, that sort of thing. Do you honestly believe he could be a COG spy?" He looked like he was about to go on, but stopped himself. James wondered if it was because he was the minor brother, or if he didn't want 'the kid' hearing anything.

What _was_ this Benson guy dealing in?

Cresconio wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. He was staring right at James. "Yeah, but his symptoms don't fucking add up."

"What..." began Vistruario before his brother cut him off.

"He claims the COG thrashed him. He was passed out cold in the street covered in blood. If that isn't onset of symptoms, then what is? And he's functioning just dandy now, isn't he?"

Vistruario folded his arms and cast a quick glance at James. "Well I say that the kid goes in with us. Do you really want to leave him out here in the street?"

"Beats the alternative," snapped Cresconio.

Vistruario's arms flew up angrily. "Alright, fine! Nosebleed stays on the asphault. Want a fucking armed guard too?"

Cresconio didn't reply, instead turning and heading for the entrance to the tent/shack, carefully ducking under a leaning support beam. Vistruario turned quickly to James.

"Just stay here," he ordered forcefully, pointing down at the ground. He spun around and, frustrated, followed his brother.

James stood, unmoving, for what seemed like an eternity. The background noises of his strange environment slowly faded as the evening continued on uninterrupted. Listening carefully, he could hear the almost imperceptible sounds of gunfire and helicopters in the far distance, but from where he could not discern. Twice a helicopter shot by overhead, rotors spinning, and both times the various pieces of refuse in the street would flutter into the air and move a few feet.

No Gears came down the street as James stood there, but neither did anyone else. As the sun inched farther below the shattered roofline, more and more of the destitute Stranded would grab what valuables they had and carry them inside.

But they weren't Stranded, James realized as he lowered himself to rough, uneven sidewalk to rest his tired legs. They were citizens, just as much as any privileged big cat living in Inner Jacinto. Where there privileged big cats in this world? James didn't know, but he was certain that these people were as much a citizen as a Gear. Unless Gears weren't considered citizens, but he doubted that.

How many people knew that the men, women and children of the THB were citizens too? Did any of them?

He lowered himself into the gutter and rested his elbows on the curb behind him. Only one thought permeated his tired mind.

James Cargaille did not belong in this world.

But he'd be damned if he died in it.

--

**Well, I'm pissed. I wrote this over a vacation in a moving truck, but what happened on that vacation, and everything before and after it, will only be remembered in infamy. Fuckety fuck fuck.**

**Since you're not going to review, don't bother reading the rest of the story. I wanted to insert a 'fucking' in there, but that would just be over the fucking top, wouldn't it?**

**Hell yes I'm pissed. I lost my fucking drawing pad because of some dickhead.**


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